Flowers
by Well-Well
Summary: Takes place after Mr. Monk is On the Run part 2. Monk walks into Natalie's home and discovers all the flowers given in his memory. M/N


This takes places after Mr. Monk is On the Run Part 2. When the episode ended, I kept wondering what happened between Monk and Natalie. I mean, she thought he was dead, then she found him alive, then she almost lost him again when the car nearly exploded in his face. So, after that emotional rollercoaster, I figure something had to happen between them to both change Monk a little and comfort Natalie.

I did my best to close my eyes and imagine Monk and Natalie having these conversations. So here's what I think could have happened after the season six finale.

I do not own Monk or anything related. It's a good thing, too, because I would probably ruin the series.

WARNING: Insane spoilers for both part 1 and part 2 of the episode. Don't read if you haven't seen them. Also, there is a reference to Mr. Monk and the Rapper.

………

Flowers

Natalie inserted the keys and opened the door to her house, closing her eyes to relish the moment. She let Monk slide through the opening in his own Monkish way before closing it. "Wow," she said into an exhale, setting her purse down. "I really, really could use a vacation." She was just so _tired!_

After everything that happened, she felt like she was on the edge of something—_what_, exactly, she didn't know. But they were finally home after hours at the DA's office and then at Monk's, and Natalie just wanted to throw herself at a cushioned anything and sleep soundly for the first night in a week. It was so late that she didn't bother going to get Julie from her neighbor's; she would collect her daughter in the morning, when she had some time to mull over… well, everything.

"Seriously, Mr. Monk," she said, hands on her hips, "a vacation would be _really_ nice."

Adrian glanced around as if considering. "Okay. Maybe you can have tomorrow morning off."

Natalie was certain she would have smacked him if she hadn't seen the almost invisible smirk tugging at his lips. "I should have left you in Sparks," she muttered, his humor infectious.

Monk, preparing a witty comeback, moved past her into the living room and froze, comeback crumbling in his throat. He could only stare. Natalie peeked around him and dropped her head a little, sighing. "Oh no, I'm sorry Mr. Monk, I forgot about all this."

Monk shook his head. "What… _is…_ 'all this?'"

Her expression fell. "Well, everyone thought you were dead."

He adjusted his collar and rolled a shoulder uncomfortably. "I'm still not quite sure I follow."

Natalie eyed him carefully. "Everyone thought you were _dead_," she repeated slowly. "They all sent flowers. You have a lot more friends than you think you do." She chuckled without really meaning it. "I was telling Randy the same thing just a couple days ago…" She took off her light jacket and draped it over the side of the couch. "You know, I have a box somewhere with the cards they sent. You can read them if you're up for it… though I don't know if that's a good idea."

In a state of awe that Monk couldn't clearly define, even to himself, he began to pace the room, inspecting each assembly of flowers in turn and noting who sent them. Natalie stood off to the side, forgetting how late it was.

He paused at one by the entrance to the kitchen, opening the small card that accompanied it. "Sharona…" He smiled, seemingly pleased.

"Yep," Natalie said, "She and Benjy were going to fly in… oh my gosh! She doesn't know yet!" Natalie moved quickly across the room to the kitchen and picked up the phone from its cradle, pushing buttons madly. "I'll just be a couple minutes, Mr. Mo—Hello, Sharona? I'm sorry it's so late, but…"

Monk explored the rest of the flower collections while Natalie passed the news onto his former assistant. There was a standard honorary bouquet from the police department. An arrangement from Randy sat next to that. He stopped at a particularly large one sent from Trudy's parents. "Natalie." She poked her head into the room, a hand over the receiver. Monk gestured to the flowers. "Could you call Dwight too?" She nodded, half listening, and turned back into the kitchen.

"I know," Monk heard her say. "It's okay now, though… oh no, I don't blame you, I cried too…" She leaned back against the washing machine and rubbed an eye. He loved that—the nonchalant, relaxed position she was in that revealed a certain beauty and vitality, yet also betrayed her ever-present vulnerability—and he had to consciously remind himself to look away. "Yes, of course you can still come visit!" she continued. There was a long pause, and then she laughed. "I'm sure he'd love that… mhmm… I will. Okay. See you soon then." Monk moved his eyes from the roses and lilies of one bouquet to watch her once again, deciding not to stop himself this time. She stepped to the kitchen table and lightly dragged her finger down a piece of paper. He suspected that it was a list of friends and family she had called, and a sudden pang of empathy filled him. He couldn't imagine the pain involved with reopening the wound each time she had to deliver the news of his death.

When Trudy had died, Trudy's parents had made the notifications. Monk had been useless.

She began to dial what he assumed to be Dwight's number. Monk turned his attention back to the numerous vases he had yet to look at. Some of them were from previous clients. One was from Kevin, and another was from Ambrose. Monk smiled when he saw the latter. Though his brother already knew that Monk was still alive, Monk made a mental note to visit him, just because.

The last arrangement was unmarked, and it was by far the most beautiful. Monk studied it closely and realized it was meant to go right beside his coffin. He shuddered. Moving around the vase like it was a clue at a crime scene, he discovered a receipt partly hidden beneath it; it was purchased with a credit card, the buyer's name concealed. But Monk knew who must have bought it—why else would the receipt be there on the table?—and he felt all at once uncomfortable. He also took notice, not without a grimace, of the cost of the arrangement.

Another paper on the coffee table caught his eye. He picked it up, making sure Natalie was still on the phone with Dwight before examining it. What he saw stunned him. He replaced the invoice just as he found it, wondering where she got the money to rent the Legion of Honor. There were papers for the coffin, the wake, the service, the headstone—where did she get the money for any of this?

Stepping backward, he turned his attention to a foldout table tucked at the side of the room, absolutely littered with pictures. The pictures and the poster board they were on were all upside down, indicating that the table had been moved recently. He could envision Natalie, hunched over the table, trying to organize the pictures of him, and he wondered if it had been difficult. They were set across the poster in rows of ten, and Monk smiled—she thought of everything. He read the poster's heading aloud: "Adrian Monk…Beloved Husband and Friend."

There was one picture set apart from the rest in which he was smiling. It was of a Christmas he spent with Natalie and Julie, the one with the evil, evil Santa Clause. Monk let his mind drift, reliving the seemingly blissful memory. He heard the echoes of Julie's and Natalie's and even his own laughter.

"We really thought you were gone, Mr. Monk," Natalie said softly from behind him. He hadn't noticed her standing there. "Sharona and Dwight are elated, by the way." She stepped up beside him, looking at the Christmas photo.

"This is like a dream," Monk admitted quietly. He reached a hand forward, tracing the outlines of Natalie's and Julie's faces with a finger. "It's like… I've died, and I'm a ghost seeing what happens next." He reluctantly pulled away from the photo and folded his hands together. "I don't like it."

Natalie moved out of his vision, and when Monk turned his head slightly to look at her, she had turned away. He watched her, unsure what to think, until her heard a barely audible noise. "Natalie…? Are you…" His intuition told him she was very upset for some reason. He carefully let a single finger touch her shoulder. As quickly as it made contact, he pulled it back. She stiffened at his touch, shuddered, and brought her gaze to the floor. "Natalie." He said her name again, his voice breaking halfway through. There was something endearing about it, something sincere. Her shoulders bunched as she held down a hiccup. "Oh, now, now don't cry!" Monk said quickly. "Think of the stuffy nose and the headaches and…" He stopped himself. "No… n-no, no, don't think of that. That's… that's unpleasant…" He realized he had no idea, not even one small clue, of what he could say to make her feel better.

Reaching a hand out, he slowly, tentatively brought it to rest on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. "I'm sorry, Mr. Monk. Just… just…" She shook her head. "I'm sorry." When no one said anything, she left the room in a flash of crossed arms and blonde hair.

Monk counted every step she took up the stairs, disheartened. He had never seen Natalie so… upset? Depressed? Uncertain? He wasn't sure which of the three, if any, were true. He wasn't even sure if he'd ever seen her like this before. He just didn't remember noticing.

The Captain had told him how she reacted when Randy delivered the news. _"You wouldn't believe it, Monk, she just… collapsed like somebody snatched her legs out from under her._"

Monk, remembering Stottlemeyer's words, squeezed his eyes shut as if to block out the image.

"_She cried for an hour, curled up on her couch. Randy and I couldn't get near her."_ _Stottlemeyer scratched his head. "And then Julie came home."_

"_Oh no…" Monk said, trying to imagine—and then trying not to imagine—what seeing both of them would have been like._

_Stottlemeyer nodded. "Natalie had just calmed down and as soon as Julie came through the door, it started all over again. It made me feel like…" He threw his hands up in the air. "I don't know, like you were actually dead. And I'd been thinking, never, never have I felt so guilty in my life." He laughed halfheartedly. "You know, now she's had it worse than you, Monk. She's lost two Trudys." He held up two fingers to emphasize his point._

_Monk stared at the Captain evenly. "I don't get it…"_

"_Oh come on, Monk. First Mitch, then you? Haven't you noticed how she can't seem to stick with a guy? And haven't you noticed that she doesn't really have any family friends? I mean, she's with you all the time, so how can she? Now I'm not saying you were to blame for all those things…" He pointed a finger at Monk. "But I do know that all she had was you."_

Monk wandered dazedly over to the living room couch, where Natalie had been curled up crying her heart out only a week earlier. He tiredly let himself fall backward into the inviting cushions. More than anything, he wanted to help Natalie, but he didn't know what to say. Doing the next best thing, though, was an option. Monk looked around the room for something to clean, which was all too easy. On the coffee table, he saw a newspaper haphazardly placed half off the edge and at an angle.

Reaching for his first victim, Monk pulled the newspaper onto the table and straightened it out. But when he settled back into the couch again, something didn't feel right. Leaning forward once more, he pulled the newspaper back into the exact same position he had found it in, nearly careening over the edge to its destruction and sitting at an angle blatantly marring the straightness and symmetry in the room.

And yet, it felt better that way. Monk realized he was in no shape to do any sort of cleaning. He and Natalie had spent what was left of the day, after filling out the necessary police work and making sure it was legal for him to be on the streets again, putting his apartment back together, and they still weren't done. Natalie had graciously offered to keep him up at her home, something he was strangely comfortable with and something she wouldn't take 'no' as an answer for.

Sitting on her couch in the cozy room and cozy house he had become so accustomed to, Monk realized he couldn't clean, whether it was because his mind was so utterly worn out or because he just didn't feel like it. The latter thought both appalled and intrigued him.

What made it even easier to condone his temporary inclination to leave things messy was his physical state; every bone in his body felt weak and overtaxed. He groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch.

If he couldn't help Natalie or even clean, he realized he needed to do the _next_ best thing—and that was to sort things out. He desperately needed to analyze the events of the past week: Monk was framed for murder. Monk leapt from a moving police van, ran through a whole forest chock-full of nature, and attempted to steal someone's car. Monk snuck into his assistant's house and made her an accessory to his escape when she drilled his handcuffs off, when she believed his word that he was innocent and put a lot at stake to help him. Monk was shot in the chest twice by his own beloved friend to feign his death. Monk was employed at a car wash 220 miles from home. Monk's assistant… partner… friend spared no effort to find and help him. Monk stole another vehicle, stopped a bomb from killing the governor, and returned to San Francisco as a hero and a free man.

And then despite insisting that his assistant-partner-friend go home and relax, Monk found himself putting his apartment back together with the help of said assistant-partner-friend.

Eyes cracking open to look at a ceiling that could use a little vacuuming, Monk wondered what it all meant. He was so _tired_. A part of him was thrilled that the Captain had a team ready to go down to Frank Nunn's apartment to see if there was any information at all about who hired Nunn to kill Trudy. But sitting on the couch after one of the longest days of his life, Monk decided that, at least for that night, there were other things to worry about.

Like Natalie, for instance.

The Captain wouldn't have lied about her reaction to his 'death.' If that was the case, if she really reacted the way she did, what did that make Monk to her? He found it very difficult to understand why she would be so upset. She complained about her job all the time. She never really mentioned anything job-oriented that she was fond of. Yet she was always there, ever-present in his life. Which made him ever-present in hers. Did she like it that way? Did she want it that way? And the things she risked, the struggle she went through as she helped him escape, then suffered his death, then discovered he was alive and drove all the way out to Sparks just to see him. Sharona would have done that. But every morning for the past four years when Monk opened his eyes and remembered that he had an assistant, he reminded himself that she could quit, like Sharona did. Any day, any second, she could just walk out and leave him.

Yet even when she thought he was _dead_, she never truly left him. Instead, she tried to spend all her hard earned money buying him a funeral service and all of its expensive accessories. He felt something strange as he breathed, something condensed and tight all over his body.

She had asked for a raise… and he would sure as hell give it to her.

And then everything faded out completely. Images blurred in his eyes, voices whispered in his ears, and he fell asleep.

The first thing Monk noticed as he drifted back into the conscious realm was the kink in his neck, inevitable as it was when he fell asleep in that position. The second thing he noticed was that some amount of time, not short but not long, had passed since he had fallen asleep. The third thing he noticed was the presence of another in the room, given away by shallow breaths to his right. Stifling a groan, he lifted his head with some effort off the back of the couch and brought his weary gaze to rest on Natalie's form, scrunched up against the far side of the couch as if afraid to invade Monk's personal space.

Her eyes were half open, staring through the table, through the floor, into a world of her own. Monk found the expression, the empty, tired, hopeless expression on her face to be worrisome. He understood it all too well. It bothered him like a crooked chair in his apartment would bother him, and he wouldn't be happy until it was fixed. But it wasn't because of his OCD, or because of habit; it felt like an inherent need, like the world wouldn't revolve if something wasn't done.

He decided to pretend he hadn't been staring at her for a minute. He made noise, rotating his head to work out the knot in his neck and letting out an exaggerated groan. It was enough to bring Natalie back from wherever she had been, and she turned her wary, almost frightened gaze upon him.

"Oh, Mr. Monk, did I wake you?"

He shook his head, yawning behind the back of his hand. "I don't think so… What time is it?"

"Four in the morning."

Monk, surprised at how much time had actually passed, shifted so that he was sitting straight, hands on his knees. "Why are you still up?" The question had to be asked. "I thought, maybe, you had gone to bed."

She shook her head. "No, I didn't go to bed. I've been up. All this time."

"All this time?" Monk wasn't unobservant; he had seen the definite signs of fatigue all over her when they stepped into the house. He wondered how she had endured for so long. "Doing _what_?"

She shrugged. "Thinking, I guess."

Monk stared at a pencil on the coffee table fiercely. "Natalie, if I… said something to offend you earlier, I'm—"

"No, Mr. Monk," she said, cutting him off, "you didn't offend me." She sat up. It was a labored movement.

"Okay." His common sense told him to leave it at that. His common sense told him that he shouldn't pry. And yet, the curiosity filled him until he was ready to burst with it. "Then what is it? What's going on?"

When Natalie saw the concern behind the curiosity in his face, everything she had thought about, every topic she had planned to bring up, every word she had plotted for every sentence she would speak, fell out of formation and became a jumbled mess clogging her throat. She was choking up again, the tears collecting for the fall, but she shook her head as if in denial of her own emotions and scrapped together what words would come.

"I thought you were dead! I was one of those people who thought you were dead!" She bit her lip, clenching her hands into tight balls. For some reason, the anger freed more words. "I really thought you were gone, I thought the world was Monkless, and I thought I was Monkless, I thought Julie was Monkless. I thought the Captain had _shot_ you and you were off somewhere floating in the ocean, cold and dead and lifeless. And alone."

The torment writhed its way across her face like electricity, showing in the rings beneath her eyes and the downward curve of her lips and the lines between her furrowed brow. "Do you know what that's like? To think that you're dead?"

Monk watched her wearily. "I've been dead for many years now," he said quietly, as if that were the end of discussion.

"No, Mr. Monk. Maybe you used to be dead. But when I met you, you were so alive. Or you became alive. The Captain, he told me stories, about how depressed you were, and how much better you've gotten. Don't tell me you were dead, because you were every bit alive to me! You were…" She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. "But then… then just like that, you were gone… And I blamed _myself_, because it was _my_ job to take care of you and I should have seen through you pretending not to solve that stupid riddle and I should have followed you to Angel and I should have protected you from Rollins… I knew you better than that… I _knew_ you better than that." She covered her mouth with a hand, her agony burning into Monk like an arrow to the chest. "I should have _been_ there!" she said from behind her hand.

After a moment, she pulled her hand away, wiping her nose, and continued. "And then you were dead. I never thought it would be so hard, to lose you, to not have you call me about…" she shook her head, searching for words, "…a-a dumb spider or a loud neighbor. I'm pathetic! I just stared at my phone that night, waiting for you to call and tell me that this was all a joke—and I thought it was a nightmare… I thought the world had ended." She sniffed, a small smile splaying across her lips. "Julie was so upset… she really loves you, Mr. Monk. You're the only father she's had since Mitch…" Her lip trembled. "…oh Mitch…" Closing her eyes, she took a deep, shuddering breath. Then the silence stretched thinly through the room.

Monk tired to absorb everything she was spilling, but still couldn't come up with the right words. Finally, he said the only thing he could think of saying. "I'm… sorry." The words slid awkwardly from his lips, and he realized he didn't say them enough.

Natalie let out a hollow laugh. "Hah. I almost wish it was your fault."

Monk blinked, taken aback. "…_Why_?"

Her face twisted. "So I could be angry… instead of so… so horribly…"

She didn't finish her sentence. In some brilliant feat of bravery, or perhaps on some sort of impulse, Monk had placed his hand, no matter how lightly, no matter how loosely, no matter how strangely, onto the back of Natalie's hand. He wasn't holding it, not even resting his own hand on it. He was just… touching it, like he was trying to communicate a thought that he was unable to pin down with words.

Natalie stared dumbly at their touching limbs, waiting for Monk to rip his hand away from hers like she had the plague, or to snap his fingers and ask for a wipe. But his hand remained over hers almost protectively, like a cage keeping the bad out. Natalie shivered.

Monk had never been one to express anything at all physically. Any contact with other people made him unbearably uncomfortable. Natalie was fairly certain the only person Monk had ever enjoyed touching for more than a couple seconds was Trudy, and that was because she was… well, Trudy.

So what was he saying now? An entire minute had passed, and Monk's hand still guarded her own without shaking, without protest, still as a statue, yet soft as a quilt.

Natalie dragged her eyes away from their hands to rest on his face. Their eyes met, and his were speaking—saying something she couldn't quite decipher. Monk took her gaze as a cue of some sort, and began to move his hand away, but Natalie decided she didn't want to let go just yet. She reached after his hand and grabbed it with both of her own, still watching Monk's face. He didn't cringe or groan; he didn't even look mildly uncomfortable. He looked almost as curious as she felt.

Again, Natalie was stunned. She brought her wide eyes down to his hand in hers and watched as he gradually tightened his grip.

But this was the limit. It had to be the limit. Natalie knew it somewhere, that Monk could comfort her no further than the point he had just reached. Her heart throbbed in her chest until it shot into her throat. She knew this was his limit, but she _needed_ something more.

It took a long moment for Monk to realize he was at war with himself. Germ alarms blaring, his brain cried out for him to pull his hand from Natalie's. But the signal never got to his hand. It was probably the look on her face, Monk reasoned with himself. Part of him wondered what he was doing; another part wondered why he hadn't been doing this earlier. But one side was winning the war.

And it would have won, too, if not for reinforcements.

Natalie was sobbing. He hadn't noticed when she started to cry, but her trembling hands woke him from his revere. Now he watched her struggle with heaving breaths as she huddled lower over his hand, which she held tightly against her chest.

"I thought… you… were dead!" she said forcefully between inhaling and sobbing. "I… thought you… were gone forever!"

"I'm not dead," Monk whispered. "Natalie, I'm not dead."

"How… do I know you aren't… that ghost?" she asked vehemently, as if Monk were trying to deceive her. The tears spilled down her cheek from her glistening, bloodshot eyes.

"…That ghost?"

She attempted to steady her breathing. "You said… that you felt like you were a ghost, looking at what happens next."

Monk shifted his whole body toward her, stepping into uncharted territory. "Natalie, don't be ridiculous."

She clung to his hand like it was her lifeline. "No, Mr. Monk, what if?"

Monk didn't know what to do. He wasn't good at this comforting thing. He sighed as anxiety settled into his stomach and spread stiffly through his body. "I am alive, sitting right next to you, breathing like any human would… I… I mean, isn't that enough proof?"

She bit her lip, refusing to loosen her grip on his hand even as he tried to pull it away. "_Please_, Mr. Monk," she whispered urgently. "…Please, don't let go." His arm halted in its retreat, and with great effort, he relaxed the limb and pushed it toward her a little more.

"I won't let go," he managed hoarsely.

"I just got you back…"

"What?"

"I just got you back today. And then I thought I was going to lose you again. I thought you were going to die in a car bomb explosion, just like your wife. Just like Trudy." She held his hand up to her cheek, softly pressing her cheek against it. "I wouldn't have been able to take it."

Her words rocked Monk's body. He hadn't even thought of that possibility. He rolled a shoulder. "…You would have survived, you're strong, you—"

"No. I would have died in that explosion too."

Monk brought back the memory somewhat unwillingly. "I don't think so, you weren't close enough to the car."

"On the inside." She whispered it.

"Ah." He let his hand relax in hers a little more, all too able to empathize.

Natalie tried to capture the moment, closing her eyes and focusing on every feeling within her. The heat from his hand radiated into her cheek. "That's why I'm not letting go," she murmured. "I'm not letting go, anymore, so please don't try to leave."

Monk kept his mouth shut, looking everywhere but Natalie. He eventually focused on the ceiling. There was something strange about what was going on, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Promise you'll stay," Natalie whispered.

He took a quick glance at her, not really sure what was going on anymore, before turning his gaze back up to the ceiling. "I promise," he said, swallowing. What surprised him the most was that he completely and truly meant it—or at the very least, he wanted to mean it as best he could.

"Tonight. And tomorrow."

"Okay," he agreed, "okay."

"Forever." She leaned over, so slowly that Monk didn't notice until her face was buried in his shirt.

"N-N-Natalie!" Monk took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, eyes searching the walls. His free arm hovered over her form, his other arm firmly pinned between himself and his assistant. His head jerked wildly. "I'm not dead," he squeezed out with a sense of finality.

"Forever," Natalie repeated, her voice muffled in the fabric of his clothing.

Monk twitched, still looking away. "What about your vacation?"

"You're coming with me."

Monk smirked despite himself. "I think you'll…" he made a noise of discomfort, "…change your mind."

Natalie closed her eyes. "Not a chance."

Monk nodded. "Okay… all right, well I'm very… _very_ uncomfortable right now."

Natalie took a deep breath. Then she pulled herself away from him and released his hand.

Something was itching at Monk, now that he had more of his wits about him. One of his earlier thoughts surfaced again. "But… but be realistic. You're going to want to," he gulped, "quit someday, right? Forever can't really be forever…"

A few seconds passed before she responded. "That's besides the point," she murmured. "Whether I quit or not, I'm still going to be here, if you need me." She wiped her eyes, a smile brimming on her face. "I'm sorry, for all this emotion tonight, Mr. Monk. I'm really sor—"

"Thank you," he said very quietly, looking at the table where the receipt for the flowers lay.

"You're… thanking me? For what?"

Monk twitched his head to the side. "For everything. For taking the flowers."

Natalie saddened somewhat. "I didn't want all of these flowers."

Looking around the room, Monk couldn't help himself. "Think of it as an extra-special Secretary's Day." He looked at Natalie and smiled.

Eyes still glistening, Natalie watched her boss, her _friend_, for a long moment. Then she threw her arms around him, resting her cheek against his, and whispered, "This, right now, is the best Secretary's Day ever, Mr. Monk." She tightened her grip. "The best…"

It took Monk a couple seconds to recover. Then he tentatively brought his arms to hover over her back. "I'm glad you like it."

"I love it," she said. "Thank you for all the flowers."

She fell asleep minutes later, head resting on Monk's lap in spite of his light protests. It took another ten minutes for Monk to stop fidgeting, but when he did, he reached for the light jacket Natalie had set on the back of the couch earlier that night and draped it over her, hoping it would keep her warm enough.

Natalie had turned all the lights off in the house except for the lamp by Monk's end of the couch. Tentatively, he turned the switch once. The light turned brighter. Again, he turned the switch. Nothing happened. Looking down at Natalie's sleeping form, he opted for stroking her cheek once and letting his finger linger. He shut his eyes, savoring the moment. Somebody _did_ care. The thought came from nowhere, and his eyes teared up. He sighed contently, in that moment truly happy. Then with one more click, the lights went out.

………


End file.
